


hang on, baby

by yeeharley



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Restraints, Torture, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26754802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeeharley/pseuds/yeeharley
Summary: “Mister Stark.” His arms are aching. Tired. He doesn’t understand. “Mister Stark, I- I need help-”“What’s going on?” Tony snaps. “Peter, where are we? Are you okay?”He sounds angry. God, he sounds scared. Peter doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Tony’s scared, too.He’s probably scared enough for the both of them right now.“Are you okay?” Tony asks again, this time more gently. “Peter?”“I- I can’t see, sir, I can’t see,” Peter croaks. He looks up, facing the general direction of his mentor’s voice, and hopes that he’s right.(Peter and Tony are taken in a twisted plot of revenge.)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 105





	hang on, baby

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my parkner+irondad blog [here](https://silver-bubbles.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Chapter Prompts: (Waking Up Restrained/Shackled/HANGING)

He wakes up in total darkness, and for a moment, Peter thinks he might’ve gone blind.

Everything is inky blackness, starless night, bottom of the sea. No matter how he strains to see, how much he blinks, he can’t seem to regain his sense of vision. Is there something over his eyes? Something _in_ his eyes?

Has somebody _blinded_ him?

Peter groans, tries to reach up and rub his eyes, and finds them trapped firmly behind his back by something tight and cold and _wrong._ He pulls once, twice, three times, muscles straining, teeth gritted so hard he feels them squeaking against each other. 

Whatever’s holding his arms still, it’s strong. Too strong for him- for Spider-Man- which is way more than concerning and most definitely landing in the ‘extreme danger’ category of his ranking system.

He tries his feet next only to find them shackled together just as his hands are, encased in the same chilly metal from ankle to mid-shin.

Even though he can’t see the restraints, he knows they’re heavy-duty. Can feel it from the amount of resistance they’re giving his enhanced strength.

He can lift ten tons without breaking a sweat.

How are these _holding?_

Peter heaves a loud groan, straining as hard as he physically can against the cuffs on his hands. His shoulders ache, ache, ache as he draws air in through labored, tired lungs and breathes against everything that tells him to stop before he hurts himself.

Eventually, though, his strength gives out and he collapses against hard stone.

A squeak of pain escapes his lungs when he lands badly against his wrists. Sharp metal digs into the small of his back, and no matter how much he shifts, he can’t seem to get himself into a more comfortable position.

How long has he _been_ like this?

Is- is anyone else here with him?

“Mister Stark?”

Peter’s voice is cracked and dry and tired. He clears his throat, blinking away tears (why can’t he _see)_ before trying again.

“M-mister Stark, please- please, Mister _S-Stark-”_

There’s a deep breath from somewhere in the room; he can’t tell how far away or who it is. Then, a gasp and a low, pained cough.

“Kid?”

Peter chokes out a sob, leaning forward to rest against his knees so he can take the strain off of his back, and lets his chin drop to his chest.

Tony. _Tony’s here._ He’s not alone.

“Mister Stark.” His arms are aching. Tired. He doesn’t _understand._ “Mister Stark, I- I need _help-”_

“What’s going on?” Tony snaps. “Peter, where are we? Are you okay?”

He sounds angry. God, he sounds _scared._ Peter doesn’t know what he’s going to do if Tony’s scared, too.

He’s probably scared enough for the both of them right now.

“Are you _okay?”_ Tony asks again, this time more gently. “Peter?”

“I- I can’t _see,_ sir, I can’t _see,”_ Peter croaks. He looks up, facing the general direction of his mentor’s voice, and hopes that he’s right.

If the sudden intake of breath from across the room is any indication, he’s managed to get lucky.

“There’s something in your eyes.” Tony sounds shocked. Peter always judges his emotions using his _face_ , and he doesn’t have that now, what is he going to do-

“What do you-”

The sound of a creaking handle and wood brushing against wood fills Peter’s ears, and he winces, scrambling backwards until he hits the wall and pulls his limbs into his chest. All he can do is try to protect himself, try to stay unassuming and _safe_.

He can’t fight like this. 

_He can’t fight at all._

“What the hell did you do to him?” Tony shouts, voice ringing off of the walls. 

Footprints scuffle toward where Peter’s sitting. Somebody laughs quietly. Cruelly.

“What the hell did you _do?!”_

Peter’s spider-sense is off the charts, ringing inside his skull like a bell. He wants nothing more than to jump out of his skin, to wake up and realize that it was just a nightmare, but he can’t even pinch himself to try and snap himself out of it.

He waits, helpless, trembling, as the footsteps get closer. Closer. Closer.

A rough hand clams down on his left shoulder, digging into the skin between his neck and collarbone. Peter flinches and tries to pull away, but there’s no use. Whoever’s holding him is stronger than him, and they probably have the advantage of being able to see.

He’s dragged to his feet, fumbling and struggling all the way, unable to get his balance from the way his legs are being held so closely together. 

“Leave him _alone!”_ Tony screams, voice raw and angry. “Put him down, get your _hands off of him-”_

“Sure thing, man,” somebody- a man, Peter thinks, but not the one holding him- says. There’s a moment of quiet.

Then, with a less-than-gentle push, the person gripping Peter’s shoulder lets go.

He hits the rough stone floor face first, unable to catch himself because his hands are firmly tied behind his back and he has no way to keep himself upright. The impact knocks every bit of breath out of his body. Scrapes his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose against what feels like sandpaper.

He bites his lip so hard that blood gushes to the surface in a desperate attempt to keep himself from crying.

It doesn’t work.

“That’s not what I _meant,”_ Tony snaps. Then, to Peter, “Are you okay? Peter, _are you okay?”_

He can’t muster up much more than a feeble nod. The hand is back on his shoulder, and another one joins it on his other side, hauling him to his feet roughly and standing him up before dragging him forward.

His feet bump against the ground as he tries to keep up with them, but they’re firmly stuck together.

He’s entirely at their mercy.

“Please-” Peter chokes on blood from his lip, lets it drip out of his mouth, feels it hit his shirt and start to soak through. “Why can’t- why can’t I see-”

An open hand slams against his ear, hard and angry, pushing his body into the person holding his right side up. 

“Hey-”

Another hit, this one with a closed fist. Peter chokes out a whine and sways on his feet, trying to shake the pain out of his head.

“Neither of you speak.” It’s the same man as before, and- oh God- he’s standing right in front of Peter. “You understand me, Stark? Talk and we make sure he _can’t_ open his mouth.”

There’s no answer, but Peter assumes Tony nods.

“Good.”

A footstep. 

Peter can feel the warmth radiating off of his captor’s body from their proximity. He resists the urge to shrink back, shuddering when a pair of fingers trace their way up the side of his face and land on top of his head.

He can’t speak.

He can’t speak.

He can’t-

“S-sir?” Peter asks, not knowing whether he’s speaking to Tony or whoever else is in the room.

He really needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.

There’s a labored sigh, borderline exasperated. The hand in his hair tightens, pulls at his scalp, yanks his head back.

He wants to cry.

“I told you,” the man says, voice hard, “that you weren’t supposed to speak to me or there would be consequences.”

_Consequences._

Peter tries to hold back bile, feels as it creeps up his throat, manages to keep his breakfast down.

“Didn’t I?”

Don’t answer.

He nods, head still held at a painful angle, parallel to the ceiling. The strain it puts on him is making it hard for him to breathe, but he nods again to make sure they know he heard and he’s answering. He’s obeying.

That’s what they want him to do, right?

“And when you disobey, you have to _deal_ with the consequences. I wouldn’t be setting a very good example if I let you get away with ignoring my orders, would I?”

He shakes his head. The hand loosens ever-so-slightly.

Peter allows himself to relax. It’s a mistake.

Without warning, his hair is being _yanked_ back to the point where he feels like his head might be about to hit his spine. He cries out, groaning as another pair of hands- how many of these people _are there?-_ grabs his lower jaw and pulls it down, making it entirely impossible for him to close his mouth.

Tony is screaming. He isn’t making any sense, but he’s _screaming,_ and Peter just wants it to stop.

Large hands shove a wad of something that feels like a towel into his mouth before forcing it closed and tying a strip of fabric around the back of his head. It’s only then that the hand on his head releases and allows him to relax, dropping his chin to his chest and breathing as much of a sigh of relief as he can when he can barely draw in any oxygen through his mouth.

Tony’s crying now. 

He wishes he wouldn’t cry. It’s making it so much harder for Peter to hold back the tears.

“Lift your legs to your chest,” the first man says, voice quiet but commanding. “Now.”

Having learned what happens when he doesn’t do as he’s told, Peter musters up every bit of strength he can and manages to pulls his knees up as well as he can. A third pair of hands maneuvers his arms under his body, and when he’s given the order to drop his legs, he does. His hands are in front of his body instead of behind, now, and he knows he should be happy about it- after all, it’s a stronger position- but he knows that they’re planning something.

He can’t celebrate if he doesn’t know what’s about to happen.

“Alright, Mister Stark,” the man says. “You’ve been very patient, and I appreciate that. So now I’m going to explain why you’re here and what’s going to happen to you next.”

Peter can barely breathe around the gag. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone more.

“I watched my son bleed out in a collapsed building over the course of twelve hours a few years ago. I was trapped under rubble, so I couldn’t hold him while he died, even when I knew help wasn’t going to come in time.”

So this is a revenge story. This is personal.

Somehow, it makes everything worse.

“My son was the light of my life.” The man pulls in a deep breath. He sounds almost sad. Dismal. “He was blind, so I took care of him closely. I loved him more than anything, and I had to watch as he lost oxygen and the ability to speak before he finally succumbed.”

_Blind. That’s probably why Peter can’t see; he hopes it’s not permanent._

“Mister Stark, this was during the battle of New York. A chitauri leviathan knocked over the building we were in and we didn’t have enough time to get out.

“He died without being able to see me.”

“So that’s your endgame?” Tony blurts, and Peter braces for a hit that doesn’t come. When it’s clear he isn’t going to be hurt, he continues. “You kill my kid because someone I was fighting killed yours?”

A chuckle, quiet, soft. “No. I have no desire to kill your son, Mister Stark.”

_They’re not going to-_

“I am going to leave you both here, and I am going to leave _him_ in pain. It depends entirely on your team to come and save you. I will not be held responsible for his death when it comes, just like you weren’t held responsible for that of my son.”

Oh.

Peter tenses as the hands on his arms start to lift, raising his limbs above his head. His heart races, faster and faster, but no matter how many times he shakes his head and hopes they know that he’s _begging,_ they don’t stop.

Something is laced through the cuffs around his wrists. Pulled taut so that, even when he is released and left to stand on his own, he can’t do so much as bend his knees or elbows. He whimpers through the fabric, stiff as a board. 

The man’s hand is on his elbow. He squeezes, once, before letting go.

“Good-bye, Stark. Enjoy these last days.”

And the thing between his hands begins to lift.

It lifts, and it lifts, and it lifts. Until Peter’s feet begin to lift with it. Until his toes are the only thing left on the ground, and he’s desperately clinging to his anger, shaking his head profusely and finally allowing the tears to spill over.

His feet leave the ground.

The door closes.

They’re alone.

“God- God, kid, you’re okay,” Tony sobs, far, far away. “The team will be here soon, and they’ll get you down. I promise, you’re going to be okay.”

Peter can’t answer. He doesn’t think he would if he didn’t have this awful thing in his mouth. Doesn’t think he’d have the energy to open his mouth.

His shoulders start to ache after a few minutes of hanging in midair, the pain made all the worse by his lack of sight. He doesn’t struggle, just stays. Stays still and pliant should anybody come to get him.

Nobody does.

Minutes bleed into hours, time becomes fluid. The pain in his muscles escalates from an ache to a burn, and no matter how hard he cries, he can’t seem to gain even a moment of reprieve. His chest convulses, spasms as he tries to suck in enough air to power his body around the sobs and the towel.

Tony keeps talking. Trying to comfort him.

He can’t hear any of it anymore.

Eventually, Peter’s shoulders go numb and he sort of… stops. Stops thinking. Stops wondering when rescue will come. Stops thinking it will.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been.

Hours? Days? He feels dehydrated and hungry enough for it to have been days.

He wants Tony. 

Wants to be held. To be able to speak.

Peter drifts so far back into his mind that there’s nothing, and he’s not hurting, and everything is quiet. He counts- one, two, three, four-

And, when he reaches four thousand eight hundred and ninety-two, the door opens.

This time, it isn’t with a creak, but with a loud _bang_ as the door slams against the wall. Tony shouts out a name, starts to speak, but Peter can do nothing but tense his muscles and wait, because he knows that the man is back to finish him off now and there’s nothing he can do to protect himself.

Instead of rough, angry hands, though, there are familiar hands with callouses brushing against his face. His half-closed eyes. Reaching around the back of his head and undoing the knot before gently pulling the towel out of his mouth.

Someone places the mouth of a water bottle to his lips, and he draws in a greedy sip, coughing as just a little bit too much drips down his throat.

“It’s alright,” Tony murmurs, carding a hand gently through his hair. “It’s alright, Peter. Breathe.”

“Get-” Another cough, this one because his throat is dry and using his voice hurts. “D-down. Down.”

“Hold on.” Rhodey. “We will, okay? Just let us fix your eyes, Peter.”

“You’ve gotta open them,” Tony says.

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t think he has enough energy. “Can’t.”

A heavy, tired sigh. “Alright. Breathe deep, kiddo, and just- just be still. So I can take them out.”

A pair of gentle fingers rest on his closed eyelids before lifting up, feather-light. Peter groans as a fingertip meets his eye, pulls something away, and quickly closes it before repeating the same treatment with his other.

“Don’t open your eyes yet. It’ll hurt.”

Peter nods. Remains limp and pliant as hands pull him down from the air and set to work unlocking his restraints, leaving his arms and legs free and tired and floppy.

He can barely move for lack of use, but _Tony is holding him._ Tony is cradling to his chest and keeping him close and murmuring something into his ear.

He’s okay.


End file.
